I’d like to expand upon this eventually. For now, enjoy the story below~

— C² <3

I walk.

I don’t remember when I started or if I ever truly began. Maybe I’ve always been walking, always moving through this place that feels more like a dream than reality. The ground beneath my feet is smooth, flat. It has no texture, no warmth. It’s not even cold—just nothing. That’s what it all is, really. Nothing.

I think I cried once. Or tried to. But there were no tears, no sensation of release. My chest heaved, my throat tightened, but no tears came. As if my body knew it was futile. Here, in this place, emotions don’t hold the same power they once did. I feel them, but they’re distant, like echoes of something that used to matter.

I think about my life before—before here. It’s funny, I don’t remember much. Vague flashes of people, places, moments I think were important. But the details are gone, smudged, like ink smeared across a page. I try to focus on them, to draw them out, but the harder I try, the more they slip away, like sand through my fingers.

And yet, one thing stands out. A name. My name. Emily.

I cling to it, as if by holding onto that one piece of myself, I can keep from fading completely. Emily. It’s the only anchor I have in this world of nothing. Sometimes, I whisper it to myself, just to hear it out loud. Just to remind myself that I exist.

“Emily.”

The word is swallowed by the air, disappearing as soon as it leaves my lips. No echo. No response. Just silence.

I once thought I heard something—footsteps, maybe? Or a distant voice? But it was gone before I could even process it. I called out, of course. Yelled into the void until my throat burned. But nothing answered. There is no one else here. Only me.

I try not to think about the possibility that this might be eternity. That this might be all there is. I’ve tried to come to terms with it, to accept it. But how can you accept something like this? How can you resign yourself to an existence of endless wandering, no answers, no explanations?

I’ve looked for meaning in the objects scattered around. Maybe they’re clues. Maybe they mean something. The broken chair. The photograph. The paper. Every time I find one, I examine it closely, searching for any sign, any hidden message that might tell me why I’m here. But they’re always the same. Empty. Useless.

Once, I thought I’d found a way out. There was a door. A door where there hadn’t been one before. I stared at it for what felt like hours, afraid to open it. Afraid of what might be on the other side. But eventually, I reached out and turned the handle.

It led to more of the same. Just another endless corridor.

I’ve stopped trusting the doors. They come and go, appearing in the corner of my vision when I least expect it. But they never lead anywhere different. It’s always the same. Always.

I wonder if this place is alive. If it watches me. If it’s amused by my attempts to escape. Maybe it wants me to keep walking, to keep hoping. Maybe it feeds off of that hope. Or maybe it’s just indifferent, existing without purpose or malice, and I’m the one assigning it meaning where there is none.

Time doesn’t exist here, not in any way I can comprehend. There are no sunrises, no sunsets, no ticking clocks. I sleep sometimes, though I’m not sure why. It’s more out of habit than need. There’s no hunger, no thirst. No fatigue. Just… restlessness. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, nothing has changed. The world remains exactly as it was before. Stagnant. Unmoving.

I’ve tried to stop walking. Once, I sat down, right in the middle of the corridor. I told myself I wouldn’t move, that I’d wait for something to happen, for something to change. I sat there for what felt like days—weeks, even. But eventually, I couldn’t stand the stillness anymore. The silence. It’s unbearable, you see.

So I walk.

And as I walk, I think. About why I’m here. About what I might have done to deserve this. Was it a punishment? A mistake? Some kind of twisted test? The questions swirl in my mind, but there are no answers. Only theories. None of them satisfying.

Sometimes, I wonder if I even want to escape. What would be waiting for me on the other side, if there is another side? Would it be better, or worse? I don’t know. I can’t know. And that terrifies me. The not knowing.

But still, I hope. Hope is a stubborn thing. Even when it’s pointless, even when you know deep down that it won’t change anything, it clings to you, whispers to you. Maybe, it says. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time you’ll find something. Maybe this time, the door will lead somewhere new.

Maybe.

So I keep going. One step after another, through the endless corridors, through the shifting walls that offer no guidance, no comfort. I keep walking because what else is there to do? What else can I do?

And yet, every time I think I’ve given up, every time I tell myself that I’m done searching, that I’m done hoping, a small part of me still wonders if tomorrow will be the day I find my way out. If tomorrow will bring something new. Something real.

But tomorrow never comes.

Only this—this endless, suffocating now.